


Snuggles are not an effective cure for the flu (but they do make illness less intolerable)

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Sherlock got a bit excited), Autocorrect is a moron, Blankets, Comfort Reading, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fever, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John is the bringer of ibuprofen and soup, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Slash, Premature Ejaculation, Requited Love, Sickfic, Soup, Tea, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is ill after a case and John, of course, takes care of him. (There's porn, but only in the last chapter. If you don't want to read porn, you can skip that chapter easily enough.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elesteria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elesteria/gifts).



> When people I like are sick, I write stories about fictional people being sicker. Well, I HOPE she isn't as sick as Sherlock is.

The case had lasted for several weeks--several weeks of strenuous and, to John, often boring efforts. Several weeks of case and hardly any full nights of sleep. John bounced back rather quickly after sleeping in until the late afternoon, but Sherlock seemed to have a longer recovery period and simply refused to exit his bedroom for a while. (To be fair, John occasionally heard him creep out to get a drink of water or go to the bathroom.) It was four in the morning, after several days of this reclusive behaviour, that Sherlock sent John a rather confusing text. (Sherlock insisted he left his phone off silent at nights in case something important happened, although 'something important' was generally 'hand me my laptop charging cable and plug it in'.)

_Join major mrwe tea now S_

Well. That was... well.

The sheer curiosity got John out of bed, and the slight concern--Sherlock simply wasn't the sort to make typos--sent him downstairs. He knocked on Sherlock's door and was answered with a vague grunt and a mumble about it being unlocked. John entered to find Sherlock curled up under a massive pile of blankets in one corner of his bed. "Did you bring my tea?" he demanded in a shaky, raspy voice.

"You said 'join major em-are-doubleyou-ee tea now'."

"Oh," said the lump of blankets. "Autocorrect... Make me tea," he added in a manner verging on that of a miserable groan.

"Sherlock, are you feeling all right?" John asked, although the answer was rather obviously no.

"Yes. Get me tea."

John glared at him for a moment, then exited. He put on the kettle, filled a glass with water, and fetched a thermometer, then returned to Sherlock and walked over to him. From here, he could see that on the floor were a couple of empty tissue boxes and their damp-looking, bunched up former contents. John tugged the blankets away from where he assumed Sherlock's head was, and the man glared out at him, nose looking irritated from the tissues and at the moment, visibly running. (That would explain why he didn't sound congested, John thought.) In addition, he was shivering, flushed, sweaty, and looked quite a bit more underweight than usual, although that one had been notable at the conclusion of the case. John held up the thermometer.

"That isn't tea," Sherlock snapped.

"I need to take your temperature _before_ you drink a bunch of hot liquid, genius."

Sherlock glared at him. John glared resolutely back. Sherlock opened his mouth and John placed the thermometer under his tongue.

The results were that Sherlock's temperature was quite undesirable. John frowned to himself as he put the water down. "You should drink this," he said before leaving the room to make tea from the now boiling water. Upon re-entry, Sherlock hadn't moved.

"You were supposed to drink the water."

Sherlock looked up at him foggily. "I did, didn't I...?" A pause, then a blink. "No, you're right." Sherlock seemed to glare in at himself for a moment, then returned his gaze to John. "I don't have the willpower to sit up... and anyway, if I get out of the blankets I'll be colder."

They looked at each other for a while, and John gave first. Despite the discontented noises he got in response, he repositioned Sherlock to lean against the headboard, still bundled in blankets. He withdrew an arm--a bare arm, Sherlock didn't appear to be wearing any clothing--and wrapped the fingers around the water glass. The man shakily drew it to his lips and tipped it, drinking quite greedily for the weakness of his movements. A good amount of it was spilled onto himself, eliciting uncomfortable shivers. John watched, then set down the empty glass. "Is my tea done?" Sherlock asked him. John nodded and left the room to get it. Sherlock drank that too, a bit more neatly, then hid his face in his knees and drew the blankets closer. "I'm too cold. I'm dying," he mumbled. "Sometimes I'm hot and other times I'm cold, I hate fevers..."

John put a hand on his back. "I can get you some ibuprofen for the fever. Actually, I'm getting it whether you want it or not."

Sherlock nodded. John brought him the ibuprofen, as well as a cough syrup that doubled as an expectorant. Sherlock took both without question, although he made a rather childish face of disgust at the cough syrup. Then he flopped over, curled up impossibly tighter, and hid his head under the pillows. John took that as his cue to leave. He dragged his own pillow and blankets down from his bed and stretched out on the sofa--better to stay close if Sherlock was this badly off.


	2. Chapter 2

John drifted off soon after but found himself awakened in the mid-morning by the sound of Sherlock coughing. He briefly went off on a guilt trip about not overhearing the coughs on previous days, but he'd spent a lot of his time in his room sleeping or out of the house buying the groceries they'd missed while they were busy with the case. He sat up and stretched uncomfortably, then walked into Sherlock's room. The man apparently felt overheated at the moment, as he had shoved the blankets to the floor and was sprawled across the bed (stark naked, no less), wincing as he coughed. John rummaged briefly in a drawer and tossed Sherlock a pair of pants--which landed beside him and were promptly ignored.

"This is awful. Kill me."

John sighed as he went to help Sherlock into a more comfortable position. "I can give you some more of that cough syrup."

"Can't you leave it here with me?"

"You'd drink far too much of it and get even loopier than normal."

Sherlock looked briefly affronted, then concerned and insecure. "Do I really come across as loopy?" he asked nervously, worrying his lower lip. "I don't want to be loopy... I want to be taken seriously as a detective and a person. I want to be a bit scary. I want you to like me. I don't want to be loopy." He looked down.

"All right," John said, patting the back of his hand awkwardly. "You're not loopy."

Sherlock's worried pout deepened. "Now you're probably just saying that so I won't complain."

"I'm not," John said, tipping Sherlock's chin up to make eye contact. "I was teasing you. I'm sorry it was upsetting."

"Promise you don't think I'm loopy?" Sherlock asked, eyes pleading. John nodded. Sherlock looked like he might be about to hug John, but he began to cough rather badly again and John left to bring him the cough syrup. John wound up sitting next to him against the headboard, trying to convince him to put the pants on. Sherlock was ignoring him, probably zoned out or bored. John poked him in the shoulder. Sherlock looked at him, swayed a little, and flopped to lean against John.

"Cold now," he said, tucking his knees up under his chin. John pulled the blankets around them both, and Sherlock shivered badly and tried to bury his face between John's neck and shoulder. The pointy cheekbone digging into one of his pressure points brought back a reminder of food.

"Sherlock, when did you last eat?"

"I tried to after we got home, but I ate too fast and wound up vomiting." An arm worked its way between John and the headboard to his other side, where it was met by the other arm crossing across John's stomach. "I haven't tried anything since, because it was around then that my fever started to become an issue." Sherlock gave a weak cough and tightened his arms.

"I'll heat you up some soup, okay?" John asked, making a move to get up. Sherlock tightened his arms further.

"Stay. You're warm." He started attempting to crawl into John's lap.

"And you're starving!" John shoved at him gently until he unlatched--being straddled by his naked flatmate is definitely not okay, considering the illness of said flatemate.

Sherlock pouted and curled up tightly, shivering harder. "I don't want soup. I want you to stay under the blankets, now the cold air is coming in, oh god." He closed his eyes tightly. John fixed the blankets for him, then made his exit. After a while spent digging around for canned soup, he found something adequate and set it to heating in a saucepan over the stove.

Sherlock stirred a bit when John returned. "I said I don't want soup," he mumbled, but he peered out at John and the bowl he had balanced on the tray next to a glass of water and, by now, some more ibuprofen. John set everything down and manoeuvred Sherlock to sit again, then placed the tray on his lap.

"Can you manage a spoon?"

Death glare.

"Okay, go ahead.. Jeez, I'm sorry I asked."

Sherlock's hands were shaky, but he managed to avoid spilling anything. He took the ibuprofen and consumed most of the soup before looking up at John unhappily. "I won't eat any more. You've given me too much. Why would someone eat this much soup."

John wanted to do something affectionately reassuring and ended up smoothing Sherlock's hair back from his eyes. Thereupon he left the room with the tray, returning empty handed.

"Get back under the blankets with me," Sherlock ordered, still looking rather moody.

"Not until you put your pants on...!"

"Fine." The absurd man did as he was asked and partially unwrapped the blankets. John fit himself to Sherlock's side and was quickly wrapped in an unpleasantly warm combination of sheets, duvets, and a particularly overheated detective who once again buried himself in John's shoulder and did not move for several hours except at one point to go and use the bathroom. John took the opportunity to dart to the sitting room and retrieve a book. Sherlock half dragged him back to bed and this time actually _curled up on his lap_ , and John wondered who this man was and what he had done with John's flatmate. He read for a while, then was disturbed by a tap on the cover of his book.

"Is it interesting?"

"Well, I think so."

"Is it distracting?"

John shrugged.

"Read to me."

"You're not at the beginning, it won't make any sense. You don't even like detective stories."

"Oh, is that what it is...?" Sherlock frowned a bit, then sighed. "Get up," he insisted. John obeyed him. "Bookshelf in the corner, top shelf, third on the left, top of page 126?" His voice was commanding until the end, where it changed to something more like a child asking for a treat they really wanted but didn't expect to get. John brought it forth and opened to the page in question, while Sherlock sat up to make room for him in the blankets again.

The book was something incredibly technical about tiny subsets of forensics and how they had occasionally been used to catch criminals. John could hardly go a paragraph without mispronouncing at least three words, but Sherlock didn't even bother to assist him there, just listening contentedly, resting against John's chest with his eyes half-closed. After some time, Sherlock nudged at him and disentangled himself from the blankets--apparently he was warm again. He stretched out on the bed near John and closed his eyes as John continued to read.


	3. Chapter 3

John eventually went hoarse. Sherlock was quite put out, but allowed him to go and have some tea and some breakfast (it was afternoon already). John returned after having done so, carrying another tray with the same combination of ibuprofen, soup, and water, this time along with cough syrup. Sherlock consumed all, managing more of the soup this time, although he pouted and mumbled a bit about being too full. He somehow convinced John to continue reading, and then almost instantly fell asleep cradled in John's lap with the book lying across his own. Relieved, John set the book aside and fully intended to move away to somewhere less overheated--somehow he wound up instead wrapping Sherlock in blankets, gathering him up in his arms and sitting there with the bundled man held close like a massive cat as John read his novel to himself.

The processes of soup, cough syrup, and ibuprofen continued for several days, with frequent bouts of cuddling and reading. As Sherlock recovered John himself became slightly congested and headachey, but did a remarkable job of fighting off illness--except at one point, where he drifted off while in bed with Sherlock and awoke to find that his patient was preparing to read to him from a book that appeared to be an introduction to and history of forensics. John propped himself up to eye level, nearly bumping noses with Sherlock. "I didn't know you had anything that basic."

"I didn't for a while. I got this for you some time ago, it's your Christmas present."

"Sherlock, it's May. You were going to wait that long?"

"I didn't mind."

"Why read it to me, instead of just continuing with your... whatever it was you had me reading from before?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You wouldn't have enjoyed it or understood it, I thought if I read this to you you might get a better grasp of the topic."

"Wait, wait." He realized he was missing a bigger issue. "Why would you read to me at all?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're doing it for me. You had placed yourself in my weaker position by showing symptoms of illness and falling asleep, so I thought that I had better do what you had done. It was a display of affection."

John placed his hand against Sherlock's face. "You're doing better. Fever's way down."

He nodded. "You, however, might be getting sick. I thought it best to demonstrate some measure of gratitude and this seemed like a good idea at the time."

John was getting a bit distracted by Sherlock's eyes. He blinked twice, rapidly; swallowed; thought. "You were seriously going to read to me just because I might get sick?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Would I really be having you on about this?" A headshake was the only answer John could give. Sherlock smiled (smirked?) in response. "Good. I am trying to be affectionate considering all you've been doing for me."

"Oh. Is that why you keep sitting on and clinging to me?"

Sherlock actually blushed a bit. "That, and I also like it. You're warm, not to mention important to me and physically attractive."

John was seriously considering kissing him. Or hitting him for being weird and confusing. On the other hand, doctors weren't supposed to hit their patients and friends don't punch friends, so he went for the kissing plan. The initial response was a startled _Mph!_ that was quickly followed by a return of the movements and an arm wrapping itself loosely around his shoulders. After a moment, Sherlock sighed and attempted to draw John closer. As John was propped on one arm, this threw him off balance, and his efforts to right himself broke the kiss.

John was fully prepared for an awkward moment of biblical proportions, and had even started early on the blush, when he was cut short.

"You're unstable. You should reposition yourself," Sherlock said, and then tackled him.

John was rather pleased with this, but, he reminded himself, Sherlock had recently been very--and still was moderately--ill and should be resting, not sprawling on top of John and kissing him with a remarkably fetching mixture of clumsiness and enthusiasm. However, he was a bit too interested in kissing Sherlock to shove him off immediately, so he let it continue, assuring himself every couple of seconds that he'd stop in just a moment. It wasn't until some time after the point that he became aware of the press of Sherlock's erection against his thigh that he gently pushed the man away. "Not now," he ordered.

Sherlock glared sullenly. "You say this AFTER you allow me--the both of us!--to become notably aroused."

"Yes, I do."

The man glared some more. "From all accounts I have read of sexual frustration, it's horribly distracting and most alarmingly awkward."

"You're supposed to be resting! I can't just go jumping you because you let me kiss you more than once! If--" John swallowed, because he wasn't quite sure how to phrase this. "If once you're fully recovered, you're still-- _interested_ \--then we can see about trying something."

"But what if you don't want to by then?!" He became quieter. "You only kissed me now because I said you were attractive." Sherlock looked down and breathed something very like a sad little sigh.

John's breath caught and he shifted uncomfortably. Was that what Sherlock thought? That John would just--? "That isn't why I kissed you," he mumbled, sitting up and putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder while also looking down and closing his eyes. "Well, it's part of the reason, because it's the only thing that meant you might actually fancy me, but I didn't kiss you because I thought you fancied me--" John broke off. He _really_ didn't want to risk messing this up, which bringing up romance might.

Sherlock seemed rather confused and almost hopeful. "Why did you?"

"I... I sort of fancy you... a bit." Sherlock had been nearly eager, but now he sagged and made another almost-sigh. John lost his reservations. "More than a bit. Quite a lot, really."

Sherlock looked up at him. "Are you being honest?"

John nodded.

Sherlock moved forward and threaded his arms around John's chest, resting his head on John's shoulder with his cheek against the man's collarbone. He tucked his legs under himself, and stayed there for quite some time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which there is gratuitous sex and pretty much nothing else. Well, there's fluff at the beginning and end. But mostly, there is sex.

Sherlock didn't bring up the conversation. He spent a lot more of his time lounging on top of John instead of near him, and sometimes he would administer quick, loving, seemingly nervous kisses to bits of John's hands or neck or face, which John generally returned and sometimes gave on his own. There was probably a slight increase in the quantity of sappy gazing. But Sherlock never opted to initiate another discussion of their feelings, and John decided it was best to follow suit. Soon Sherlock found himself a case, and they solved it, just the same as normal. It had been interesting. Not the best, but interesting. There had been a bit of running around, and John was pleased to see that Sherlock showed no signs of any fatigue left over from his illness. Sherlock, being the superior intellect, always claimed he had a right to the first shower after a case, so John liked to take up as much time as possible with his afterwards, to try and throw off the impression that the second shower is actually preferable to the first. As John, now virtuously clean, emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock approached him and tapped him on the shoulder. John turned.

"Excuse me, John, you said that we could possibly attempt something sexual once I was no longer ill?" Sherlock asked in a remarkably polite tone.

John made a mental note to teach Sherlock how to properly get someone in his pants. He also nodded.

"May I come to bed with you, then?"

"Are you sure that's the best idea?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Better than being bored, isn't it?"

"I'd like to be certain you feel you're ready. I don't even know if you consider this a romance or not, I don't want to rush you into things."

Sherlock thought this over for a moment. "I think I'd rather figure it out as we go. I definitely want to try having sex with you."

John still wasn't sure it was the best idea, but he was willing to go with Sherlock on this one. He gestured for Sherlock to follow him and went up to his bedroom. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and glanced around. "I never paid much attention to the non-biological side of sex, except what I've picked up on cases. I suppose you want to put your penis inside of my rectum, then?"

John managed to pass off his combined laugh/splutter as an awkward cough and steadied himself. "Sherlock," he said, approaching and resting a hand on the man's shoulder, "I'm not going to make an attempt at anal sex with you on our first encounter."

"Oh. Okay. I guess I should have done some sort of research on what to expect from this."

There was a serious issue beginning to form here. John didn't want to ravish Sherlock, he just wanted to giggle and cuddle him senseless.

"Let me kiss you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded happily. John braced a knee on the bed by Sherlock and brought their lips together cautiously.

It was quite a lot nicer than the last time. Less hurried, so Sherlock had more time to pick up on what John was doing and mimic it. John managed, furthermore, to nudge Sherlock further onto the bed at an angle until he could sit next to Sherlock with his torso facing the opposite direction and not have to worry about toppling off the bed. Sherlock cast his arms around John's neck, and John eventually drew Sherlock into his lap. He worked a hand through Sherlock's hair a few times, drawing gentle sighs.

Eventually, John broke the kiss, because Sherlock was wearing a shirt and it really had to go. Once it was out of the way, John brought his lips to the edge of Sherlock's jaw, kissing gently, tasting, mouthing along it and down his neck. He sucked gently at the side of Sherlock's neck, the man's hands tensing on John's back. When he sucked harder, Sherlock responded both immediately and vocally, almost startling John but, in the end, only making him rather a bit smug. He let his hand trace very slowly down Sherlock's chest, tracing the sternum with his thumb, resting over the left pectoral to feel his heartbeat, gently pinching a nipple--this one drawing a sharp sigh. Not quite sure if Sherlock was ticklish, he ignored the man's stomach for now, instead letting his hand rest on a pyjama-clad thigh.

John bit down carefully on Sherlock's neck, and he whimpered, legs parting. John traced his hand to the inner thigh and up from there to Sherlock's groin, squeezing gently. Sherlock shifted his hips up against John's hand a few times before apparently becoming awkward and self-conscious, turning his face away from John and closing his legs again, although he didn't do anything to disguise his rapid breathing or to encourage John to remove his hand. John nuzzled at his cheek for a moment, then kissed him briefly. "Is everything okay?"

Sherlock nodded, legs parting a fraction.

"Is it alright if I undress you?"

"Undress the both of us," Sherlock responded.

John rather easily unwrapped the towel from his waist without Sherlock needing to move, about which John was a little smug. Then he began to kiss Sherlock's neck again as a reassurance, simultaneously pushing down Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. Sherlock himself kicked them off once they reached his shins, then wrapped his arms around John's neck again. He nudged at John's forehead with his face until their lips could meet. John rested a hand over one of Sherlock's prominent hipbones, carefully bringing the tip of his tongue into the kiss. Sherlock seemed confused momentarily, then responded by pressing his tongue between John's lips, gently, uncertainly. Sherlock shivered. John moved to grip Sherlock's cock, and the man went entirely tense, voicing a little whimper into their kiss, moving a hand up to let his fingers dig into John's hair. John sighed approvingly and began to stroke Sherlock firmly, drawing forth a muffled moan. The fingers tightened in John's scalp, and Sherlock shuddered, breath catching as he spent across his abdomen and John's hand.

After a few moments, Sherlock made a small sound of discomfort and tugged John's hand away from his cock by the wrist, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. John watched him rather breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his cheek as if trying to retain the dissipating flush of arousal.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said after a moment. "That was probably a bit... rapid."

"It's okay," John responded following a brief pause. "Lots of people might get overexcited their first time with a partner, it's normal. Especially considering that--I'm pretty sure--this was your first time trying this with anyone."

Sherlock nodded awkwardly.

"If you want to stop we can stop, you don't have to deal with me this time if you'd rather not," John told him.

Sherlock shook his head. "I can finish you off, John." A pause. "Or, I presume I can." He got out of John's lap to sit facing him, then wrapped his hand around John's erection, pumping it slowly. John closed his eyes. Sherlock kissed him gently for a moment, continuing his movements, eventually gaining a bit more speed and force. Then he shifted back a bit and leaned down until he was about level with his hand, watching curiously. He darted his tongue out to the edge of John's foreskin as he pulled it up over the head. When he stroked back down again, he ran over the head with a bit more of the surface of his tongue. John groaned quietly, opening his eyes again to look down at Sherlock, who then began gently kissing and sucking at John's cock as he stroked it, listening for which actions in which spots produced what reactions from John.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to grow bored of that and sat up to watch John's face, which quite quickly changed from aroused curiosity to an almost disoriented bliss as Sherlock moved his fist faster. John's eyes were closed tightly, his mouth slightly open, his head tipped back. He opened his eyes at one point, but Sherlock was looking at him like he would normally look at a small dish of very important bacteria and that was not the sort of thing he wanted to think about right now. In short order (surprisingly short, considering the realization about Sherlock's alternate use of the Petri dish observing face), John was groaning softly, panting as Sherlock drew him to orgasm.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and pulled him close enough for a soft, quick kiss, then he stood up to lift the towel he'd been wearing and do his best to wipe away the come on both of their dominant hands and Sherlock's abdomen. Sherlock, who had less modesty, wound up being the one to go downstairs and fetch a damp cloth, which they then used to great effect in the field of cleaning before curling around each other under John's blankets.

"Can I sleep here?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course. There's not a single reason you shouldn't," John added, kissing his cheek.

Sherlock sighed. "I think I've wanted this, notably more than the sex. Which I did want, well, obviously, but..." Sherlock shrugged. "This."

"Using me as a pillow at night as well as day, you mean?" John teased.

Sherlock frowned. "Getting to stay close to someone I love, even while we sleep," he responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock being somewhat premature about things because premature orgasms are sort of adorable and I have always wanted to write one.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written porn in a while, so I have no idea if I'm doing okay now. Was that okay? Also my apologies for my really weird narrative style, I'm tired so the antiquated phrases might have been slipping through a bit (didn't Sherlock cast his arms around John's neck at one point? Yeah).


End file.
